


Paraselene Boy

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Clubbing, Coming In Pants, Fluff, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rutting, Teenlock, Top John Watson, catholic!sherlock, come shots, homophobic parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Paraselene</i> [par-uh-si-lee-nee], noun, plural: paraselenae.</p><p>1.	a bright moonlike spot on a lunar halo; a mock moon.</p><p> </p><p>To John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is like the condensation droplets on a glass when he’s thirsty. Like bloody knuckles on a bad day. Like blissful elation when he’s drunk. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes is this pretty, unmarred thing that John wants to own and dirt. He is swollen, bruised lips and heated shags in the back of John’s car. </p><p>John watches as Sherlock Holmes exits his Catholic, boys only school with his clean uniform and his posed manners.</p><p>John needs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paraselene Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some dirty catholic!sherlock/naughty!john smut and ended up with stupid boys in love what the fuck is wrong with me okay bye enjoy (especially you Cami).

To John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is like the condensation droplets on a glass when he’s thirsty. Like bloody knuckles on a bad day. Like blissful elation when he’s drunk.

Sherlock Holmes is this pretty, unmarred thing that John wants to own and dirt. He is swollen, bruised lips and heated shags in the back of John’s car.

John watches as Sherlock Holmes exits his Catholic, boys only school with his clean uniform and his poised manners.

John needs him.

They met on a sunny day of August. John’s car had broken, and he was covered in grease from head to toe, his white shirt a mess.

Sherlock Holmes had walked up to him and said, “You’re doing it wrong.”

And not even five minutes later John’s car was working and Sherlock was walking away.

Now, three months later, John is waiting outside his school, leaning back on that same car, a smirk on his face. Sherlock’s mates eye him up and down as they exit, as usual, and furrow their brow when Sherlock smiles at him and jumps in his car.

John laughs and for the first time he drives him to his house. His flatmate Mike is out of town, and they have a shag deal that allows them to bring girls or boys over only when the other is not home, since they share the only bedroom in the house.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow on every detail, every object in the house, and John knows the younger boy is seeing everything.

“Well, here we are,” John says, a bit awkwardly. God, the place is a real mess.

Sherlock throws his bag on the couch, taking off his jumper in a swift motion.

John’s mouth waters. That white shirt is way too tight, it should be illegal.

They sit on the couch and talk, for a while. About Sherlock’s day at school, his fucking Catholic parents and his smothering brother, about his new haircut and does he look good?

He looks amazing John thinks, his curls a bit shorter at the sides, an errant, solitary curl in the centre of his forehead.

“You look delicious,” is what John says, and Sherlock’s pupils dilate impossibly, his aquamarine eyes growing darker, taking a shade of green.

“John,” he just says, and that word only speaks volumes to him. It says, “Take me,” and “Please,” and “I need you.”

John knows it because that’s what Sherlock has told him that first time, under the pouring rain, dry humping against a wall, in a hidden alley.

And John knows him by now.

He answers Sherlock’s plea with a sweet kiss, because he might be in love with that pretty boy.

He knows their relationship is complicated, Sherlock’s family would kick him out if they found out their youngest is gay. And he knows that the way he desires Sherlock is definitely unhealthy, just as it is the way Sherlock has come to look up to him like John is a goddamn saint (which he isn’t).

Sherlock is a scientist. He is analytical and practical and he makes these crazy-ass deductions that knock the wind out of everyone.

Yet, Sherlock believes in God. John asked him how could he, and Sherlock had pointed to the flowers in Regents Park.

“They have no reason to be so beautiful,” he’d said, “Yet they are.”

John thinks that he’s lucky he’s found Sherlock now. He’s scared that had they met later in life, someone else might have discovered him and ruined his purity. 

Sherlock leans forward with sheer need and kisses John more deeply, with a burning passion that makes John’s toes curl and his stomach clench.

Sherlock’s tongue is a wicked weapon, and the boy uses with all his focus and precision.

John is desperate for more.

“Wait,” Sherlock says, John’s finger midway to his shirt. Sherlock takes off his purity ring (an idea of his American mum, John knows), and places it on the coffee table.

Sherlock was a virgin before they met. He’s supposed to wear that ring until he finds a girl and gets married.

Sherlock doesn’t resent John for corrupting his purity (though John does, a bit).

Deep down John is also shamelessly smug about being all of Sherlock’s first times (and if he’s lucky, just very, very lucky, even the last).

When the ring is off, he unbuttons Sherlock’s uniform shirt slowly, reverently, and Sherlock shivers, goose bumps on his shoulders and chest. John tries to kiss them away, trailing his lips from the spot behind Sherlock’s ear and then down to his trapezius and back. Sherlock quivers more violently, and John smiles against the sea of white under his lips.

“You’re a tease,” Sherlock complains, a bit out of breath.

John’s smile only widen, as his mouth ghosts over Sherlock’s pectorals, breathing warm breath over his nipples, now hard and erect. John can’t resist anymore and closes his mouth around one, playing with it with his tongue.

Sherlock moans, his head thrown back in pleasure. John takes the advantage of his position to crawl atop Sherlock, now lying shirtless on the couch.

“Kiss me,” he says, and John readily complies, attaching his lips to Sherlock’s, biting down on that plump lower lip, tracing the outline of that Cupid’s bow, running his tongue over the roof of that sweet mouth.

Sherlock is breath-taking splayed underneath him. John feels a little guilty because he’s not worth of that adoring gaze, he’s not right for Sherlock.

He’s not a good guy.

People think he is, with his sweaters and polite manners, but the truth is the John enjoys some danger in his life. He often goes night clubbing when he’s had a bad day. There’s always someone that can be used as a stress reliever there. John likes the sound of his own fists and the acrid tang of blood and the rush of adrenaline.

Sherlock had to bandage him up more than once (and John should be the doctor, out of the two, for Christ’s sakes).

He knows he doesn’t deserve Sherlock.

But he also knows that the two of them fit together so perfectly it would be a sin not being together. Sherlock had once told him that people rejected him when he deduced something about them. John had been appalled, and then heartbroken, when Sherlock confessed he was starting to believe he would have to spend the rest of his life alone, before he met John.

John had known even then that he wasn’t right for Sherlock. That he was going to ruin him and mar him and that Sherlock was only bloody sixteen, he didn’t know what he was talking about, it was too soon for declarations of that kind.

But John had said nothing of that, he had only murmured, “I love you too,” Because it seems like he always manages to fuck up when it comes to Sherlock.

Sherlock who is so bloody young, only two years but man do they count when you’re eighteen. Sherlock still thinks that all they’re gonna need is their love, if Sherlock’s parents reject him and cut his trust fund when Sherlock has to go to uni.

John has seen a lot more of the world.

John has seen his mother wither and die in front of his very eyes, his father crumble and look for comfort in the welcoming arms of the alcohol. John has seen his sister fall in that very same trap, an alcoholic at only twenty-five, spiralling in circle of self-loathing and regrets.

John knows that love won’t save you, that love isn’t enough. That you need hard work, and a strong will, and tolerance.

John would want nothing more than to suck on Sherlock’s neck and leave bruises, to mark him, let everyone know that he’s his. But he doesn’t, knowing how Sherlock’s mother is almost as perspective as her son.

Almost.

“Take off your shirt,” Sherlock pants. John needn’t repeat twice, straddling Sherlock’s waist and getting up on his knees. He takes off his sweater and shirt, then they are skin on skin on John’s couch.

Sherlock’s long, pale arms come up to circle his neck, bringing him down for another deep kiss. John lifts his hips, leaning with his weight on his elbows, so that Sherlock can wrap his legs around John’s waist.

Their twin erections meet through the layers of fabric, making them both hiss.

John rolls his hips, seeking friction, and Sherlock moans and arches his back and throws one arm back. God, what on earth is that boy?

John licks a wet trail from Sherlock’s navel to his collarbone, where he bites softly. Sherlock yelps and moans and meowls and John knows he’s going to come in his pants. Just the thought of undo Sherlock that much, to utterly make him lose every reasonable thought, well, John can’t waist it.

His movements become more deliberate, and just seconds later Sherlock’s mouth go slack, a soft “Ah,” coming from his mouth. John feels the boy’s cock twitch and soften beneath him, and he is so bloody aroused he can’t think straight.

“Come on me,” Sherlock whispers, a hand still thrown back, panting heavily, his eyelids drooping closed.

John doesn’t even have to think twice about it, but he unbuttons his trousers while crawling atop Sherlock.

He pumps his cock on Sherlock’s chest, the boy smiling softly at him and John finally orgasms. His come lands on Sherlock’s neck, his pectorals, making John feel like Sherlock is his, and no one else’s.

Then reality dawns on him.

“Oh God, sorry love,” he murmurs, trying to get up and get a flannel or something, feeling ashamed for being such an animal in front of that ethereal creature.

Sherlock stops him by gripping his arm.

“Never leave me,” Sherlock pleads, a broken whisper that chills John to the bone.

“Never,” he swears, because it may be three months since he met Sherlock, but he knows this is for life.

 

Three hours later find laughing stark naked under a blanket on the couch, Sherlock smoking his first joint, John laughing his arse off at Sherlock's lost face and dumb smile.

John turns the TV on, for when he’s high he and Mike always watch cartoons. Sherlock starts deducing the characters’ lives and John laughs and laughs. Sherlock is so serious, high on his couch telling him that Peppa Pig’s mother probably has a degree in Biology. John loves him so much he thinks he might explode.

He takes a deep drag and a bubble of elation suddenly surrounds him.

“Christ I’m starving,” John says, getting up from the couch.

“Fancy some chips?” He yells from the kitchen, at which Sherlock screams back “Yeah.”

John grabs a packet and sits back on the couch, draping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“God, I love you,” John whispers, bending his arm at the elbow to caress the boy’s cheek.

“I love you too,” Sherlock replies, but then he focuses on the screen again.

“Ooh John, look at that!”

And they spend the night like that, high on the couch watching cartoons and laughing and kissing and then falling asleep on top of each other.

 

When John wakes up in the morning, Sherlock is gone. His clothes from the day before are missing.

John glances at the clock.

10:03 am.

Christ, he’s tired. Sherlock had a test, at what, 8am? John thinks so. Well, poor thing.

He gets up and stretches, then he heads to the bedroom to get dressed. His red pair of boxers are missing. John smiles.

He doesn’t have any lessons today, so he just wears his house clothes (a t-shirt and sweatpants) and roams around the flat looking for food.

He finds some old Chinese take away in the fridge. He shrugs. Health be damned.

He slumps on the couch and opens YouTube on his phone. Some music is what he needs.

Somehow he happens on Alex Turner’s “Submarine” album, and listens to it on repeat.

Some songs make his heart ache as he thinks of Sherlock.

Suddenly, someone knocks faintly on the door. John puts the food down and walks to the door, opening it to face Sherlock.

His head is bowed, in his hands are a rucksack and a suitcase.

“Can I stay?” The younger boy whispers brokenly, breaking something inside of John as well.

John nudges his chin up with a finger, to find bruises on the boy’s marble features. The purity ring is gone.

John may not be as good as Sherlock, but he can put two and two together.

He doesn’t ask anything, he just beckons Sherlock in and hugs him tight.

The boy sags in his arms, and starts crying.

“I thought at least they loved me,” he says, his voice muffled by John’s jumper.

John hugs him more tightly.

 

Sherlock and John share a bed now, while Mike sleeps beside them. It’s not really idyllic nor romantic, and moments of privacy are rare. Shags needs to be scheduled when Mike isn’t home or when he’s busy doing something else.

After a week John feels like he can’t breathe and takes Sherlock to his favourite local gay bar.

Sherlock has never been to a place like this, and his eyes widen in wonder at everything. He’s a marvel himself to look at, John thinks.

He orders them a drink and a couple of shots, then they are off dancing among the crowd. John didn’t think he could love Sherlock any more, but Sherlock like that? His skin his glowing with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He dances like no one is watching, like only he and John exist on this world, when actually everyone in the club is staring at him.

And in a sick way John is proud, proud that Sherlock is his, proud that now there are two lovebites on his neck to prove that.

They go home at four in the morning, Mike soundly asleep in the bedroom.

They giggle as they fall on the couch, kissing deeply and fervently.

Divesting each other is a hard work, drunk as they are, but they manage, somehow. John retrieves the lube he has hidden in between the couch cushions and squirts some on his fingers.

He grins at Sherlock.

“Sir, show us your arse,” he says, and Sherlock giggles, before lying with his belly on the arm of the couch, swaying his hips in invitation. John laughs as he inserts the first digit, feeling Sherlock’s tight ring of muscles twitch and get used to the invasion. Then there is a second finger, and a third, and then Sherlock is panting that God ‘s sakes John, he’s ready.

John positions himself behind Sherlock, his hands on his hips, and pushes in slowly, staring at the planes of his back and bending to kiss Sherlock’s scapula.

It’s hard going slow with Sherlock, making all those little, strangle noises that are still so _virginal_. John tries to, reaching down to close his lube-covered fingers around Sherlock’s cock and moving his hand with expert precision.

Sherlock comes first, clenching around John, who is pushed over the edge by that sensation only.

 

When they wake up the next morning, Mike is gone, but there’s a man sitting on a chair in front of the couch.

“What the fuck?” John exclaims, picking up a blanket to cover him and his boyfriend from the stranger’s eyes.

“So this would be the young man who corrupted my baby brother?” The man asks, staring at Sherlock.

Ah, it was the meddling prick. John shut his mouth and let Sherlock deal with it.

“John Watson, meet my brother Mycroft,” Sherlock says with a fake smile.

“Mummy and Daddy are crossed, but they had a few words with the priest, and now they’d be most glad to have you back, should you confess your sins and respect their restrictions from now on. There are some… _facilities_ , where people like you can be treated, they say.”

“You mean facilities for people like you and me,” Sherlock’s voice is ice, that chills John to the bone.

Mycroft sighs. “I hide it better.”

“That’s not the point.”

“So shall I tell our parents your answer is no?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, so Mycroft sighs again. “You’re only sixteen, you won’t be with John forever. You need stability, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head, and he’s ready to answer when John interrupts him.

“Risking to sound cheesy or overly sentimental, I’m positively sure that a love like this happens to you once in a lifetime. So I’m not letting go of Sherlock until he wants me, _Mycroft_.”

Mycroft curls his lips in an affected smile, before getting up.

“Well, some of us do have a job,” he says, “I need to go.”

“What a pity,” Sherlock deadpans.

Mycroft heads to the door without a goodbye, but before leaving he turns.

“Ah, John?”

“Yes?”

“Take care of him, alright? I will know if you won’t.”

And with this, he leaves.

“One of a kind, your brother,” John comments, and when Sherlock doesn’t reply, he turns.

“Hey love, what’s wrong?”

“Did you mean that?”

John furrows his brow. “What?”

“That our love is special?”

John smiles, walking up to him and crouching to be level with his face.

“Paraselene boy, I’m your man in the moon,” He whispers, before pecking Sherlock’s cheek with tenderness.

“You know, you are.”

John looks at Sherlock in confusion, and sees a glint in the boy’s smiling eyes.

“What?” He queries.

“Cheesy and overly sentimental.”

“Oh, shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and please leave a comment! I'd love that because I wanted to try some stream of consciousness in some parts for John, so tell me if it worked! :) 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr @caspu!](http://caspu.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Hope to see you next time! :) xx


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